RAMBO YEAR ONE
by ramboyearone
Summary: Fort Bragg, 1967. Soldiers Manuel Ortega and John Rambo are going to face the selection process to join the green berets. Drinking beer, they will know each other... And Rambo will tell him his first battle, during his first Vietnam tour: a really violent hill defense. War, death, mind demons... RAMBO YEAR ONE


RAMBO YEAR ONE

Fort Bragg, September 3, 1967.

Manuel Ortega met John Rambo a couple of weeks before the selection process began for the soldiers who hoped to join the Green Berets.

They met in an office where the application forms had to be submitted. After signing his papers, Ortega rather shyly invited Rambo to go and drink a beer with him. They might just as well take the opportunity to relax as they would both soon be up to their necks in trouble.

Johnny was silent.

There was a thing that Ortega picked up on immediately: Johnny had already had combat experience, just like he had.

There was a certain hardness there, and a kind of seriousness that showed through despite the fact he was three years younger than Ortega.

As they talked, it somehow made them feel they had something in common.

Johnny was very reserved and said very little about himself, his past and his family.

Ortega was still getting to know him. Perceiving he was very reserved, he just let it go.

The two men only spoke about their training and their fears with respect to the selection process.

They exchanged ideas on how they should go about getting ready for the tests and did so without hesitation, knowing that they were not really competing against each other; if you deserved to be chosen, you would be and that was it.

So it was better to give each other a hand, just as it was in war.

At some point they inevitably started talking about Vietnam.

For a few moments they both fell silent.

They continued drinking their beers but were distracted by internal images of the war.

They asked each another what their experience had been.

Ortega summed up his own experience in a few sentences:

"How did it go? I saw a lot of our soldiers die. Really one hell of a lot. That was it. That was my you, John? "

What Ortega had dismissed in just a few phrases, for Johnny was a completely different matter.

Johnny asked Manuel if he wanted to listen to a story about some particularly hard fighting he'd taken part in.

As soon as Ortega nodded and invited the other man to continue, the words came flowing forth, almost incessantly.

Up to that point he had offered nothing more than monosyllabic responses or short phrases - albeit in a friendly manner - but the boy now vented his feelings in a long monologue.

It was like watching the sluice gates of a dam being opened: the words came out like a river in flood.

He would occasionally sip his beer, and his tone was calm, almost glacial; he had a fixed, 'distant' look.

"The base and the headquarters were at the top of a hill; it was practically bare with no vegetation on it and it had been completely fortified. Around the base of the hill there was dense jungle vegetation and the perimeter was constantly checked.

We spent months digging to fortify that position ...Various months.

The whole hillside below us was a maze of trenches with sandbags, barbed wire and underground bunkers.

That particular day the sun was shining and the radio was switched on. You could always hear it in the background; it was on 24 hours a day. There was the sun and that particular low sound of the radio and the rest was silent; it would almost put you to sleep. It was kind of like being at the beach.

Then suddenly we could hear a lot of shouting over the radio.

At that very moment most of the people in the base were sleeping.

I was there when the call came, and I heard everything.

One of our patrols in the jungle beyond the perimeter on the northern side had come across an enemy unit.

The screams we heard over the radio were desperate.

The guy out there in the jungle was panicking and shouting too close to the microphone so we couldn't make out what he was trying to say.

He had a southern accent.

He informed us that they had come across an enemy mortar unit and the mortars had already been positioned, and a few seconds later it was like the end of the world had started and all hell broke loose in the camp.

All of the fortifications at the lower level were hit … some of them were blown to smithereens.

I was up at top, close to the command bunker, and I could see everything that was going on.

It looked as if there were probably about a dozen of these friggin' mortars out there in the jungle.

Within just a few seconds all of our outermost trenches, bunkers and barbed wire disappeared into a cloud of dust and splinters.

The entire perimeter below us was covered in smoke.

In the meantime some of our men with M60s were responding to the fire but what were they shooting at?

Our men in the trenches were no longer safe.

It would have taken just two or three more attempts at most so that they could see how to adjust their trajectories and then they would manage to drop the mortar bombs in the corridors we had dug into the ground.

Our commander – he was called Morris – realized that immediately.

He turned to me and said:

"Those goddam bombs are gonna drop in our trenches".

I hardly had the courage to look up over the sandbags, but, as cool as a cucumber, Morris was just standing there, looking down at what was going on.

He said that all of the first salvo of mortar shells had targeted the outer defense line so I could get up and watch.

There was still no risk for us.

"Judging from what they're aiming at", Morris said, "they want to weaken our defenses and then they'll attack us. Otherwise they would have targeted the command bunker right from the start.

When he finished the sentence, I began to feel tense. Very tense. The idea that they were about to arrive was a shock. I was young then ... "

Ortega stopped to think. The boy, who had just turned twenty, felt that he was still very young until a year ago but everything had changed now.

"I was afraid, but he was really cool.

I got up and looked over the rampart too.

It was true: the shells had fallen by the bunkers, the machine-gun nests, and the two armored cars assigned to our company. The Vietcong shells had all fallen on our front defense lines.

The armored cars were already moving. It was important not to give the Vietcong enough time to adjust their trajectories. The drivers had a few seconds to maneuver out of the way if they didn't want to be hit and end up dead.

If they didn't change their position in time, the enemy shells would have hit them and the drivers knew it.

It must have been scary having to do what they were doing.

In the meantime, Ford and Martinez, the two guys that were with me, had returned from our bunkers with the M16s and helmets. They brought two for me too.

Morris went on explaining what was happening.

"Look down there", he said. " – they're going to destroy our machine guns with the mortar shells or in any case they'll force us to move them.

Then they'll come up the hill.

It would have been enough to engage the mortar unit out there to prevent all of this happening but when our reconnaissance patrol identified them, it was too late.

They totally goofed up.

The only thing we can do now is repel their attack if we can, while the other patrols out in the jungle move back from their sectors and converge on the enemy unit"

But this was not the worst possible scenario and Morris added:

"Unless this first attack is just to put us off our guard and concentrate our attention on what's going on here … I mean that if this is just a ploy and there are enough Vietcong out there to attack from two sides, we are finished."

Ortega now interrupted Johnny, who was talking quickly and revealed a trace of anxiety.

He asked him whether the Vietcong actually did attack in the end. He had this great desire to learn how everything ended up.

Johnny simply told him that they eventually did attack. He suddenly dried up and didn't say anything else.

He added:

"You see, in cases like that there are only two kinds of people: those who know what the 'moves' are and those that don't. People like Morris knew what the moves were. Others, even above him, didn't know."

Johnny took a sip of his beer, and then went on talking …

"Trautman definitely knows what he's doing. When they got him to create this unit, he inspected the companies and told us about the possibility of taking part in the selection process. Some of the guys didn't even listen to what he was saying but I was interested in the selection and I managed to suss this guy out a bit; I got to understand how he thinks about various things. Believe me, he knows what he's talking about. We are lucky to be with this guy. He was the one who taught me about the 'moves'. The motto of the unit he's putting together is _'Let's study the next move, Sir!'_

You'll see how many times they get us to repeat it.

You'll see …

A lot of other people think that what Trautman says is a load of crap.

For many people, the Colonel goes overboard with his calculations and thinks too much.

For me, it's not like that.

I know ... I've seen it happen and I know it's true.

I know he's right."

Johnny drank some more beer and started gazing into mid-air.

Then he continued:

"I'm not going to be one of those recruits that just try to survive the selection.

I want to be the way he wants me to be 'cause I know he's right.

Because you see, it really is all about 'moves' and when it comes to it, in battle it's just a question of those that know what the moves are and those that don't.

And then, ok, so you can be the meanest motherfucker in the valley of death*, but unless you know the moves, man, you're dead even before you enter a combat zone and without even havin' a friggin' inkling why it should be that way.

That day, on that hill, I had no idea what I was doing.

But Morris had a clear picture of everything "

Johnny was looking into the distance again.

He drank some more beer and then, without Ortega asking him, he went on with his story.

"That day some people knew what moves to make, and others didn't.

There were some of them who didn't even know what was happening in their area and they were moving around aimlessly; they didn't have a clue why they were doing it and they just went where they thought help was needed … but by doing that, they were abandoning their side of the hill, not realizing that if their unprotected flank had fallen, the Vietcong would have broken through. They would have been able to get in.

And if that happened, we would all have been dead.

In short, they were trying to be helpful and at the same time they were putting our lives at risk."

"And how did the battle go, Johnny? Did they arrive? Did they attack in the end?"

Johnny nodded.

"And you …?"

Johnny continued drinking his beer.

"Did you kill any of them?"

Johnny nodded again.

"Well, it was a bit like target practice, using the 'pig'; that's all it was. The way they were coming up, it was like something out of WWI.

They tried to conceal their presence with smoke screens, but it didn't do them any good because I knew where to shoot; I just pressed the trigger and that was it.

Then, as soon as the VC began to approach, a couple of Cobras went up from the top of the hill.

As they were lifting off, those friggin' choppers raised so much shit and dust from the ground ... I couldn't see a thing and the noise was deafening. I couldn't even talk to Ford.

As soon as they were up, they quickly started covering our butts and they were just over our heads. They were firing their rockets and using cannons. They hit back with everything they had, all at once.

I could see the drifting trails of smoke left by the rockets down at the base of the hill.

All hell was let loose over our heads: with the chopper blades, the rockets and machine guns, it was like sitting in a jet turbine.

As soon as the Vietcong managed to dodge the helicopter fire, they started to loom up in my machine-gun sights. Using an M60 and and an M16, Ford and I took out at least twenty of them.

And those we didn't kill had to stay crouching in their holes.

At that point, some of the enemy tried to head toward the barbed wire to escape.

We fired and reloaded and kept on shooting, without ever stopping.

It went on for five hours, and we were constantly targeted by those fucking mortars.

They didn't stop using the mortar shells even when their own troops were coming at us. They were practically shelling their own assault troops with a sort of 'intentional' friendly fire.

That was really weird.

No, seriously …

The Vietcong didn't give a shit about killing each other. If you've never seen it, you' have no idea what they're capable of doing.

They came on toward us without stopping, under their own artillery fire.

It was the sickest show I'd ever seen. It was beyond any military logic … and yet, it seemed to work. _Almost_ none of them died from their friendly fire.

Boy, was that scary stuff.

So our human target practice went on for something like five hours, while on the other sides of the hill, we were doing a lot worse.

But the others held out.

At the end of that goddamned attack, the ringing in my ears wouldn't stop, my hands were covered in burns and I couldn't see out of one eye because of all the dirt that had been thrown up by the explosions and the Cobras hovering above our heads.

Anyway, that's how it went at Dalat and I guess I'm lucky."

The young veteran took another long swig of beer.

He drank slowly, but when he did drink he consumed a hell of a lot of beer all in one go.

"Martinez was dead, but we didn't know till the next day."

Ortega shivered and Johnny didn't caught on that his story had affected him somehow.

"We went to sleep that night but we just didn't know where Martinez was, and we didn't care very much either. A lot of us had finished our night-shift guard duty shortly before the attack began so we hadn't slept for twenty-four hours … and that included me.

At some point during the combat Martinez just disappeared and it made us pissed more than ever.

But then we were close to snapping under the pressure and so we couldn't give a damn. Some of the others even passed out on account of the sheer fatigue.

Listen, I mean, man, do you get what I'm saying?

Some thought he might have been hiding in the woods, or maybe he'd just flipped.

That can happen.

And it happens more often than people think … they get lost, so they hide out somewhere, they just get as far away as they can from the fighting, they freak out and stay put somewhere for hours on end, sobbing and weeping their hearts out, even after the battle is over.

We were convinced that something like that had happened to him, but we were entirely wrong.

The next day someone found his tags in the middle ...

In the middle of ...

Yeah, fuck, we found his dog tags and we figured what had happened: a mortar shell had fallen into a trench just when he was moving through it.

So there was nothing left of Martinez.

That same day, Morris the officer that knew all the 'moves' lost a hand, so he was sent back to the world.

I wasn't there when it happened but I think he was injured by something that fell out of one of our choppers.

They told me he's still on active duty, but working as an instructor.

Anyway, he was brilliant.

And Ford, the guy that covered me … he's still there … maybe in Saigon.

He's been there for three years now. He's always extended his enlistment.

He killed one of them with a bayonet that day.

Yeah, he did 'n all.

He went to fill up with ammunition … and he almost didn't make it back.

He was running, and he was practically unarmed at that moment; that was when he came face to face with one of them … one of the few Vietcong that managed to get through our cross fire: the cross fire I was also providing.

He survived just because he was faster than the enemy … and if he had died, it would have been all my fault and mine alone."

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah."

"That was really bad."

"That's right."

"It dawned on me that if you are not a member of the Special Forces, you're just a number … cannon fodder.

They'll use you like a pawn, whenever necessary.

The Green Berets are a different thing, and are worth a lot. I mean they're very expensive to train: it takes time and money to prepare them. So the top brass want them to stay alive ... because they're precious, ok?

And that's what I hope to become: precious because that way I might survive another 'tour'.

So this is why I decided to try to enter the 5th Special Forces group."

_* "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for I am the baddest mother-fucker in the whole God damn valley." _Well-known marine corps motto.

* * *

"_In war there are only two types of people:_

_those who know what the moves are, and those who don't. _

_People like Morris knew how to move. _

_Others - also above him - didn't know."_

_ John Rambo, 1967_

* * *

_Vengeance..._

_ Rage,  
_

_ Blood._

RAMBO YEAR ONE

* * *

POST SCRIPTUM

If you have read up to this point, you probably think my tale was somethng more than simple trash.

'Rambo year one' is a trilogy of books regarding Rambo and his green berets team. I dedicated 2 years of my life to this three books, but it seems it will be "_a long road_"... Finding a publisher will be EXTREMLY difficult for many reasons, the first of all, that I am an italian unknown writer, and that no one even reply to my emails.

Me, as the author, will really appreciate your support, no matter who you are. I don't want money, only to have friends. Even knowing you liked this short cut from my book, will really mean VERY much for me. Write me a word... anything. Search me on facebook (rambo year one), I will reply every single person that will ever write me. Promised.

Thank you...


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